


Beyro, More Like Bae-ro

by AlexBarton



Series: Adventures in Karamore: Searching for Silas [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Karamore - Fandom
Genre: Drow, First Meetings, Gen, Karamore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexBarton/pseuds/AlexBarton
Summary: Diabhal meets someone with a connection to his past.Karamore was created by the amazingly talented CaptainMorgan.Based on our D&D escapades.
Series: Adventures in Karamore: Searching for Silas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712035
Kudos: 1





	Beyro, More Like Bae-ro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainMorgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainMorgan/gifts).



> This is part of a mini-campaign set within the world of Karamore that we played online during the COVID-19 pandemic while our local government had a shelter-in-place mandate in effect.

Diabhal had been to many places on Amerce, but he had only been to the capital city once. Large cities weren’t always friendly to those from Apoth, and his distinctive purple skin marked him as such. 

Regardless, he leads the group towards a tavern near the Smithing District, hoping that they could get lodgings there.

The halfling bartender throws an unfriendly glance his way, and it darkens when he spots Kymenos. The tiefling was even more of an oddity on this continent than Diabhal himself, and the drow male mentally prepared himself for the confrontation that was sure to come.

“We’re looking for lodgings for the night.”

The bartender narrows his eyes, wiping down the bar. “We don’t serve your kind here.”

Diabhal breathes out through his nose, trying to remain calm. “We have coin, we’re willing to pay.”

The bartender just shakes his head and repeats himself, “We don’t serve your kind here.”

From behind him, a gruff voice calls out, “Coin is coin. Swallow your prejudice before I shove it up your ass.”

The bartender crosses his arms and looks at the floor for a moment. When he looks up he points at the door. “Out. I don’t have any more rooms available here.”

Diabhal looks around the half-empty taproom and raises an eyebrow, but gestures for the group to exit the tavern. As they leave, he sees the person who had spoken up, a half-orc, stand up. 

He knocks over his drink, spilling ale all over the table and floor. “This place was shit anyway.” 

The half-orc follows them outside. Diabhal gives him a cursory glance, assessing to see if he was a threat. Green skin, close-cropped hair with some length on top, familiar scars crawling up his right side from under his shirt all the way to his hairline, black tattoos following the same path on his left side, a casual unassuming stance but large arm muscles.

“Hey. Sorry about him. People here, well they can be...”

“It’s to be expected in larger cities. It’s not the worst I’ve dealt with,” he interrupts.

The half-orc rubs the back of his neck. “If you need a place to stay for the night, my place isn’t big, but it’s a roof over your head.”

Diabhal narrowed his eyes. “We don’t even know your name and you’re offering us a place to sleep?”

“Beyro,” he says, sticking out his hand.

Gwynaria took his hand and held on for an uncomfortably long time. 

With some exasperation, Diabhal decided to rescue Beyro and shifted the dwarf druid to the side in an impressive feat of strength. He could see the surprised looks on his companions’ faces.

“What?”

“You don’t look like you have enough muscle to move a child, much less Gwynaria,” Hel informed him.

Diabhal looked affronted. “I am strong! My bow has a draw weight of 150 pounds.”

Hel smirked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s a longbow.”

Gwynaria giggles and speaks up, “We don’t need to know how big it is.”

Diabhal splutters. “That’s not... THAT’S NOT!... Longbows have higher draw weights! I...”

He notices the small smile on the half-orc’s face as he watches the group bicker. Diabhal takes a deep breath and tries to think of something coherent to say to change the subject, but Beyro beats him to it.

“Seriously guys, if you need a place to stay, the offer stands.”

“Thank you Beyro, but we wouldn’t want to impose.”

Beyro snorts lightly. “My mother would never forgive me if I let you sleep outside.”

Diabhal looks at his three companions, and they all nod in agreement. “Well, if you’re offering, then we’ll gladly take you up on that.”

Beyro nods and walks off, Gwynaria chattering at his side about being a druid. He mentions that his mother was a druid, then hastily corrects himself that his mother is still alive but that there were complications with her magic.

Diabhal infers that these complications can only be from the orc slave camps back on Apoth and quickly interrupts Gwynaria’s questions, redirecting the conversation back to something less personal and potentially uncomfortable.

They come to a small and run down house in the Smithing District, and Diabhal follows his compatriots inside. They see a smaller green blur run and hug Beyro. After a moment, the younger half-orc peeks at them from behind, presumably, his brother.

“This is my younger brother Tauk.”

The boy waves shyly.

Beyro looks down at him. “Why don’t you go make us some tea?”

Tauk nods and walks off quickly, accompanied by Gwynaria.

Diabhal watches as Beyro pulls out piles of worn blankets and begins passing them around. He slips outside and takes a deep breath. He’s not claustrophobic, but he definitely prefers to be under the open sky. He sits down to meditate and closes his eyes, feeling the pull of the earth around him.

After a few moments, Beyro comes outside. Diabhal can feel that he is trying to be unobtrusive, but it’s not really working. He cracks an eye open at the half-orc. 

Beyro is holding a blanket in his hands and motions as if to hand it to Diabhal. “It’s cold out here.”

“It is not so bad. But if you wish to go elsewhere, I will walk with you.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Beyro sits down next to the drow.

Diabhal opens both eyes and relaxes slightly. “How did you come to be in Myer?”

Beyro shifts slightly. “You know about the camps.”

Diabhal nods once in acknowledgement.

“My father was in one. My mother managed to get me and Tauk out, along with herself. You?”

“I’m a Hunter,” Diabhal presses his lips together, weighing what he wants to say. He can feel Beyro looking him over.

“You know, you have fewer scars than I would expect from someone who grew up on Apoth.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, “Physical scars, yes. Not all scars can be seen.”

“I get that,” Beyro pulls up his left pant leg to reveal a prosthetic made of graceful swirling pieces of metal and wood, “Mine are physical.”

Laughter spills out of the house behind them and Beyro looks over his shoulder at the door. It allows Diabhal to study the scars on his neck; they look unnervingly familiar, and Diabhal recognizes them from bodies left in the wake of his Mark.

“When did you meet him?”

Beyro turns back and follows Diabhal’s eyes. His hand comes up to cover the scars, and he tenses. “We ran into him when we were leaving Apoth. It was the last time my mother had her powers. He cursed her. And... he was carrying my father’s head.”

And with that, the conversation is over, Beyro quickly rising to go back into the house.

Diabhal stands abruptly, “I’m hunting him.”

Beyro pauses for a moment, “Don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Beyro offers a wry smile and gives Diabhal the blanket, “Don’t stay out here too long, it’s getting colder.”

Diabhal watches as he walks into the house, then wraps the blanket around his shoulders and sits back down to continue meditating.

As he’s falling asleep, his eye catches on a strange shadow, but he drifts off into slumber before he can look at it more closely.

* * *

The next morning, he wakes to Kymenos nudging him in the side. 

“If you’re dead, I’m looting your corpse.”

Diabhal cracks an eye open to glare at the tiefling, then pulls the blanket over his head and goes back to his half-sleep. Eventually he hears Gwynaria coming back from wherever she had gone, and he peeks his head back out to see her carrying a bunch of river wildflowers. 

Catching the scent of something baking, he follows the dwarven druid into Beyro’s house. As he enters the kitchen, the scent of spices mixes with a lingering faint burnt smell. He notices ash smudged on Tauk’s hands and face, and shoots the boy a small smile.

Hel slides a small loaf of spiced bread in front of him. “Dragoncake.”

Diabhal gives the pastry a critical once-over. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I just made it up.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it safe to eat then?”

“I already had three!” Gwynaria chirps from the other side of the kitchen.

Tauk nods shyly. “I had one too.”

Diabhal throws one more critical look at Hel before taking a bite. The spice is pleasant, a little kick that seems almost out of place but for the sweetness of the honey he can taste.

“It’s good.”

Hel sniffs disdainfully. “Of course it’s good.”

“Can we bring some to Beyro?” Tauk asks, “He probably skipped breakfast before going to work.”

Gwynaria and Hel are quick to agree, followed by Kymenos, and finally Diabhal. After tidying the kitchen, the group sets out to the Smithing District proper, following Tauk to a forge with a sign naming it _The Last Return_.

To Diabhal’s eye, it looks like the sign was a wooden piece broken off a ship. He takes a glance around the forge, noticing a large unfinished sword made of a black metal. A quick look at the smith himself reveals sweaty, soot-streaked skin and a second glimpse of muscled arms. 

Diabhal snaps his eyes up to see Beyro smirking at him, so he narrows his eyes and the half-orc looks at the bowl Hel is pressing into his hands.

Beyro seems appreciative of the food, so much so that he eats it immediately.

Hel winces. “You needed to cook it before eating it.”

The half-orc looks down at the bowl. “That... would probably make it taste better.” He moves to place the rest of the dough on a flat piece of metal in the coals of his forge.

“So. What are you guys getting up to today?”

“We need to go to the archives,” Diabhal responds.

“Oh. Will you be leaving?”

The drow shrugs. “It depends on what we find, I suppose.”

Beyro catches his eye, “Well then, I hope you don’t find what you’re looking for.”

Diabhal just raises an eyebrow and gestures towards his face, “You’ve got something on your everywhere.”

The half-orc maintains eye contact as he brings up the lower hem of his cutoff-sleeve shirt to wipe his face, exposing the muscle of his torso.

Diabhal doesn’t respond and turns on his heel to walk out of the forge, cheeks heating at Beyro’s knowing smirk. He shakes his head slightly to clear his thoughts, looking in the direction of the palace. 

Hopefully the archives had a clue as to where Silas was headed next.

Time to continue the Hunt.

**Author's Note:**

> Modern longbows generally have a maximum draw weight of 60lbs. There's debate about the maximum draw weight of medieval longbows, but it's anywhere from 80 to 185 pounds.  
> Anyways, Diabhal's bow having a draw weight of 150lbs is supposed to be on the heavier side, but if someone who knows more about this wants to correct it, please comment and let me know!
> 
> For more information on Karamore, see our campaign Tumblr:  
> karamore-aesthetic.tumblr.com


End file.
